


Grim Tidings

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: RID [8]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Him Grimlock no bozo - him governor of Cybertron!</p>
<p>Bureaucracy ill befits a Dinobot, and yet Grimlock has made a fist of his post-war fate... until now. The orbiting, decapitated head of Unicron - silent for 10 long years - has once again become the focal point of attention. In creating new life and propagating their own race, have the Mini-cons unleashed chaos once more? Meanwhile, on the seas of Cybertron, the mystery of the Terrorcon jail-break remains unsolved. And who better to unravel a riddle than the galaxy's greatest detective, Nightbeat?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Who he think he is, ordering me around? Rrarrgh!”

Grimlock had long coveted leadership of the Autobot forces. He’d spent many vorns convinced he was the right mech for the job – and that Optimus Prime’s possession of the Creation Matrix was some kind of odd, cosmic joke. Eventually, the ferocious Dinobot had come to accept… and grudgingly admire… his commanding officer. And so his goal had changed: instead of leadership, he sought a more prominent role in the army to which he had pledged his axe and devoted his existence.

“Me terrestrial governor of Cybertron,” he yelled at the empty chairs around him. “Me, Grimlock, _king_ of Cybertron! So what if dumb Autobots call me ‘Gubernator’ behind back, compare me to weak human action movie star who became weak politician or something weak like that. Me no care!”

Shattering the view screen of his data pad did little to ease his tension. He had a bad feeling that no action, irrespective of its violence level, was going to make him feel better. Grimlock briefly considered driving his forearm blades through the wall and into the next room… likely causing Swerve to jump out of his chair… but abandoned the idea as too immature. Even for him.

“Prime say ‘give them a little help, Grimlock’. He say ‘re-organise your forces, Grimlock’. He say ‘flexibility is key to command, Grimlock’. Me say ‘go shove orders disguised as advice up rear waste disposal port, Prime!”

Ten years had passed since the Autobot leader left Cybertron, bound for Gigalonia, to honour a promise to the dead. Ultra Magnus had gone to Earth for similar reasons and, in their mutual absence, command of the Autobot forces… and therefore Cybertron… had ceded to Grimlock. It hadn’t been the most popular decision, of course, but no one was about to argue with the Dinobot.

“Stupid, dumb, weak, small-minded, self-righteous… raaarrrgh!”

Besides, any critics would have shut off their synthesisers long ago. Grimlock was efficient, competent and, above all, fair in his role as terrestrial governor. Even the affluent toffs of the Tagon Heights resettlement applauded his linguistically-strangled speeches. Grimlock, who’d briefly stood at Megatron’s right hand, was the most unlikely of diplomats… and yet one of the most successful.

“Grimlock am boss now! So why everyone giving me orders?”

It had been 10 long, relaxing, _pleasant_ years since Grimlock had been forced to obey an order from Optimus Prime. He wasn’t happy about having his peace spoiled. Especially not by a command that would mess up his carefully-arranged defence of his reclaimed home planet.

“Okay, so dumb ‘cons not turning up to try and take place back. That good thing. Boring, but good thing. But me say they no come back because they fear measures me put in place; defences too good for half-empty ‘con army to break through! Prime now make me pull mech out of structure, remove pin from superstructure, no care if whole thing fall down and we go boom as result! Grr!”

He realised he was talking to himself.

The realisation did little to improve his mood.

Still, he’d been wrong about one thing. Summoning his Energon axe from sub-space and cleaving the communications console in half? That _had_ made him feel better.

With a smile beneath his mask-like face plate and a warm, violent glow in his Spark, Grimlock sauntered out of his private office and into the next room. Swerve, Red Alert and Silverstreak were already there, waiting.

The metallurgist was, as predicted, jumpy. He’d no doubt heard the commotion in Grimlock’s sanctum. Silverstreak, by contrast, was a portrait of apathy – the sniper was lounging in one chair, his feet slung across another, his treasured rifle on his lap. Red Alert has his back to them all, his fingers working feverishly on a data pad.

The three mechs were some of Grimlock’s top advisors. Red Alert and Silverstreak were members of the legendary inner circle of the Autobot elite. Swerve was someone Grimlock had come to value during the quest for the Planet Keys – he trusted the words of the “little red car” more than any other. The Dinobot’s other confidante was his long-time fighting partner, Swoop. The metallic pteranodon was currently away from Iacon, leading a mission to the Mini-Con “moon” that hung over all their heads.

“What’s up, Big Grim?” Silverstreak asked laconically.

Grimlock frowned at the hated nickname. “Prime have request about Earth,” he snapped. “Say Magnus and RIDs could use ‘little help’. Say they have heavy battle recently, Magnus almost die, others badly injured. No real details, other than they back at Forktongue Maxipuss, or whatever big dumb base called.”

“Fortress Maximus,” Swerve corrected. “And it’s not dumb. It’s pretty neat.”

The metallurgist had used the enormous base to fend off the Decepticon’s final assault on Iacon, Grimlock remembered. “Whatever,” he grunted. He was not in the mood to invite conversation. “Told him we stretched thin and…”

“Stretched thin?” Silverstreak coughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

“The med bays are empty for the first time in nine million years,” Red Alert said evenly. “Our forces have never been at this level of readiness. We have troops to spare.”

“That not point!” Grimlock thundered.

“Then what is?” Swerve asked.

Inwardly, Grimlock seethed. The point was _he_ was in command of Cybertron, not Prime! He had his rosters, and his charts and plans and diagrams, and everything ran smoothly because Grimlock had made it so! And…

“Don’t tell me,” Silverstreak smirked, “that the bureaucrat has overtaken the berserker?”

Grimlock’s optics widened. Angrily, he jabbed a silver finger toward the grinning gunner, ready to verbally blast him out of existence… but no words came. He was silent because the fracker was _right_. He’d been organising things for so long, congratulating himself on his efficiency, that he’d stopped being a warrior.

“Know what? Fine,” he growled. Once again, he summoned his axe from sub-space, then began walking toward the door. “Magnus need help? Good. Me go myself. No one know Predacon better, _fought_ Predacon better, than me. Take Swoop, too – tell him to follow when get back from creepy little people. Go back down to filthy mudball world and stomp dumb dino into ground, be back in time for ground-breaking ceremony on new cross-planet transit line and…”

“Grimlock,” Red Alert said, his tone so frustratingly baseline, “you can’t go.”

“For love of _Primus_!” The Dinobot bellowed his frustration, turning on the spot and heaving the axe into the air. It travelled at a hellish velocity and buried itself into a wall, just inches from Swerve’s head. The metallurgist coughed nervously, then scurried across to the other side of the room.

“What the frell you want me to do, then? Huh? Me all out of ideas, no mind admitting that! You say we spare mechs, then you say we no spare me… what going on?”

The medic had always been a calming influence. Now was no exception; he crossed the room silently and placed both hands on Grimlock’s shoulders. He looked into the Dinobot’s optics, almost visor to visor, and spoke slowly.

“You are in charge of an entire planet,” he said, “and you are needed here, doing what you do so well. Those in your command can be sent on another mission, as they can be spared. You _cannot_. Revel in your indispensability, Grimlock, then find another way to fulfil Prime’s request. All right?”

“Me hate it when you do that, Red,” Grimlock said stiffly.

Red Alert smiled. “I know.”

“Bah.” Grimlock tore loose from the soothing grip and began pacing. When he circled near his axe, he pulled it from the wall and willed it away. The immediate danger removed, Swerve returned to his chair.

Silverstreak still hadn’t moved. “What sort of problem is the Big Bot having?” he asked. “I mean, it’s not like these Terrorcon yahoos can pass unnoticed through the human population or anything, right?”

“Maybe they can,” Swerve shrugged. “I mean, they somehow managed to get onto the surface of Cybertron, and break into Checkpoint’s super-prison, without tripping a single sensor array.”

Grimlock rankled at the mention of his one failure. “Reminds me – need to call Checkpoint after meeting,” he said, jaw clenched. “Him say he receiving ‘specialist help’ in investigation. Progress report now past due.”

“The Earth situation?” Red Alert prompted gently.

“Terrorcons infesting Global Space Bridge. Human allies captured – no idea where they are. Having to look after dumb human kid. Old sparring partner of mine, Flame Convoy, active somewhere on planet. Human agency confirmed Transformer existence.” Grimlock sighed. “Nothing good. Dumb Magnus.”

“They’re attracting an awful lot of attention,” Silverstreak nodded. “All the wrong kinds of attention, too.”

Swerve drummed his fingers on a keyboard. “So what do they need, then? Some kind of… I don’t know… some kind of distraction?”

An idea popped into Grimlock’s processor. It was electric – so much so it jolted him upright. Again, the smile crept up under his face plate. _The wrong kind of attention… give them a little help… some kind of distraction_. Oh yes.

“You genius, Swerve,” he whooped, slapping the smaller mech on the back. The affectionate blow was so hard, it pushed the metallurgist face-first into his console. “Keep up good word. I be back later. Have someone to see.”

Grimlock loped out of the room, his entire frame energised. When he heard Swerve’s plaintive voice behind him asking: “what did I say?”, all he could do was laugh.

\-----

Nightbeat sat, cross-legged, on a small hover platform. A few inches beneath him, the Rust Sea ebbed and flowed. The distant lights of the Tagon Heights twinkled against the sky. His processor… half of it… was at peace, enjoying the quiet.

The other half of his processor was working furiously.

Alone amongst the Transformers, Nightbeat had the ability to segment his processor and multi-task. The two halves of his “brain” could work on different problems simultaneously – or different angles of the same problem. It was an ability that made him Cybertron’s greatest detective and a member of the Autobot elite. It had the side-effect of making him think too much about some things, becoming introspective and depressed at times, but he’d developed ways to cope with that.

One of the tricks, he’d found, was to let 50 per cent of his mind wander, once in a while.

While a section went sight-seeing, the other pondered the jail break mystery. Beneath Nightbeat and the sea lay the Autobots’ maximum security prison. Designed by the detective’s best friend, Checkpoint, the “super jail” housed the worst Decepticons, rebels and recalcitrants that had been caught. Until recently, it had been deemed impregnable.

The Terrorcons had made a mockery of that claim. Cruel Lock, Sharkticon and Chromia had somehow passed undetected through Cybertron’s inhabited areas and blown the jail wide-open. Their spoils were two of the worst offenders known to mech – homicidal freaks Wheeljack and Crumplezone – who’d likely bolster their zealot forces.

Nightbeat scowled. Usually cool and collected, he could not control his enmity for Wheeljack. The psychotic ex-Autobot had played the detective for a fool, back on Gigalonia, and nearly killed Checkpoint in the process. Had it not been for the most unlikely of allies, both Nightbeat and the fembot, Arcee, would have died.

The surface of the Rust Sea churned, bubbled and, finally, erupted. A dark, jagged shape leapt into the air, travelled hundreds of feet straight up, then fell like a dropped pin. There was a whir of black-and-blue motion before the shape stopped in mid-air, thanks to jet boots, and yawned. A wry look crossed the red face plate Nightbeat had come to know so well, heralding the arrival of _that_ sardonic voice.

“Well, that was productive,” Thundercracker quipped. “The inmates know frack all about the jail break.” He cracked his ebony knuckles meaningfully. “And believe me, none of them held out. For long, anyway.”

Once, comments like that would have disturbed the detective. He’d spent most of his life viewing the world in extremes of black and white – as the air-brushing on his alt mode, done in Japan so long ago, could attest. A decade spent working, in close quarters, with the career killer had broadened his mind and stretched his perspective.

“It’s never a waste,” he said lightly. “You’ve eliminated a variable. And, as I’ve told you before: whenever you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains…”

“However improbable, must be the truth,” Thundercracker finished in a sing-song tone. “Blah, blah, I get it. Can we find some traitors now, master detective?”

Thundercracker’s definition of “traitor” was vastly different from the norm. The midnight-coloured jet – one of Megatron’s original Decepticons – had defected during the first Terran conflict. He’d not so much sided with the Autobots as he’d announced his intention to destroy Megatron and claim leadership of the Decepticons for himself. Unlike his colleagues, Thundercracker believed in a strict code of honour… his issues with the Autobot cause were political and ideological, not based in psychosis or rage.

Many had wondered where the jet would place his sword following the Great Reformatting. Megatron was dead; the Decepticons in disarray. With the trust he had engendered, especially from Optimus Prime, it would have been easy for Thundercracker to deal the Autobots a critical blow, then capitalise upon it with a revitalised, re-focused Decepticon army.

That, however, was not Thundercracker’s style. He first spent time training Optimus, schooling the Matrix bearer in the use of his new, more powerful frame. Then, he’d once again refused to join the Autobots – maintaining his long-held designation of “ex-Decepticon”. Finally, he’d approached his colleagues from the Gigalonia mission with a proposal: hunt down and imprison “as many rogues as possible”.

Thundercracker felt any mech who wore a purple badge, but strayed from _his_ vision of the Decepticon ideal, was a target for capture and re-education… with extreme prejudice. Much like Nightbeat, his perspective had widened. He'd realised the “problem” with his army went much deeper than Megatron. Nightbeat, Arcee and Checkpoint had leaped at the opportunity, expanding the remit of the old Autobot SWAT team and becoming, in essence, galactic bounty hunters.

Nightbeat grinned. It had been a fun decade.

The detective, the ex-Decepticon and the valkyrie had provided the prisoners. Checkpoint had created and maintained the prison. And so the jail break was a matter of pride for the group – even more so than for the obviously hacked-off governor Grimlock – because _their_ project had been compromised.

“Soon, I hope,” Nightbeat answered his friend. “There’s still something bothering me about all this… something I can’t quite pinpoint.”

“Ooh,” Thundercracker replied. “The last time you had an itch like that was in the asteroid belt by Quintessa. If you hadn’t figured it out, Astrotrain would’ve slagged the lot of us.” He sniffed. “And those freaky Mini-con zombie clones of his would’ve eaten our chassis to refuel themselves.”

“Good times, weren’t they?”

“You know it.”

The waters parted again, this time for a second hover platform. Arcee rose up to join them, manoeuvring her craft next to Thundercracker. Nightbeat remembered a time when the sleek, deadly valkyrie was most often seen in the company of Rodimus. The team’s experience on Gigalonia had changed that – and the jet’s actions against the maddened Speedia queen, Override, had cemented a new relationship. The detective now found it hard to picture the pink, white and black warrior with anyone other than Thundercracker. It was ironic, given her partner had once been the source of her darkest nightmares.

“Security checks and sweeps don’t tell us anything we don’t know,” she groused. “Every angle is the same damn footage – Cruel Lock slashing, Chromia shooting, Sharkticon taking cheap shots at anyone whose back was turned. It’s frustrating.”

Thundercracker leaned over and patted her on the head. “You poor dear.”

“Bite me,” she snapped, grinning nonetheless.

Nightbeat stared at the distant lights. “We’re missing something that’s right in our faces,” he said slowly, letting the thoughts coalesce. Smoke poured from the exhaust pipes on either side of his head – a sign both halves of his processor were grinding down the same task. “Three Terrorcons go in the front door and are met, half-way, by two escaping Decepticons. How did they get out, and how did they know where to go?”

“The lighting system got hacked,” Arcee shrugged.

“Old Decepticon signal code, maybe?” Thundercracker wondered aloud. “Wheeljack’s been in the game long enough to translate it.”

“There’s the ‘how’,” Nightbeat agreed, “but only in terms of directions. Inferno was guarding the creepy twins, and his injuries were consistent with a bladed weapon. How the frell did Cruel Lock magic a weapon inside?”

“For that answer,” cried a small voice, “you need the dirtiest player in the game.”

The words were coming from a small piece of grey flotsam, bobbing on the surface. Except it wasn’t really flotsam. The indistinct shape transformed and waved cheerily. Zapmaster, unofficial fifth member of the team and Thundercracker’s Mini-con partner, had finished his reconnaissance mission.

Silently, the jet transformed, swooped down to pick up his “personal trainer” and returned. The little grey mech brushed dirty water and fluid from his form, spat out a mouthful of fetid-looking much, and grinned. His oral intake was _filthy_.

“Charming,” Arcee deadpanned.

“I don’t keep him around for his looks,” Thundercracker replied.

“I’m worth my wait in gold, and don’t you forget it,” Zapmaster chuckled. “Especially seeing as no one else could provide you with _this_ little nugget of information. Down deep, by the corner of the prison structure, north east of here? There’s an erosion hole. And it’s big enough for a sword to drop down… especially a really thin, deftly-controlled sword. Now, who do we know that fits that description?”

Thundercracker swore.

“Bludgeon’s joined the Terrorcons,” Nightbeat growled. “Terrific. Explains how he slipped by us back on the Outer Rim.”

“He used to be an honourable mech,” Arcee whispered. She’d studied the ancient martial art of _metallikato_ under the electricity-wielding master. The Transformer civil war had split student and teacher along political lines; they had yet to meet face-to-face on the field of battle. Nightbeat knew it was a confrontation Arcee dreaded.

“Just another traitor,” Thundercracker sneered. “Just another target.” The killer had longed to pit his wing sword against the highly-regarded fighter. A red haze shimmered around his chassis – Thundercracker’s legendary “warrior’s spirit” was kicking into gear, triggered by anticipation and rage.

“Simmer down,” Nightbeat commanded. He didn’t often pull rank with his friends but, when he did, their obedience was instant. “Zapmaster, you’ve given us the final piece we need for this puzzle. The Terrorcons used a natural loophole to take out Inferno, and the lighting to signal Wheeljack and Crumplezone. The mechs guarding the prison were caught in a deadly pincer movement, and were wiped out. That’s how they escaped.”

“Job half done,” Thundercracker nodded. “Now we just need to find the scum.”

“Job _one third_ done,” Nightbeat corrected. “I’m less interested in the ‘how’ of the prison break – in some ways, it’s incidental. The bigger problem is the undetected presence of Terrorcons here, on Cybertron, right in the middle of a populated area.”

Arcee frowned. “And just how do you propose to solve that one, Holmes?”

Nightbeat was silent for a moment. He tried something new and let _both_ halves of his processor wander, just for a short time. Unburdened by thought, his natural curiosity took over. His optics flickered over the landscape, taking in the buildings… the edges of the sonic canyons… the massive drops that led down to the Plasma Energy Chamber…

“Eureka,” he whooped.

He stood up, wobbled on the hover platform, and regained his balance. Thundercracker, Arcee and Zapmaster looked at him expectantly. They’d seen this look before, and knew that asking questions would do nothing to hurry along an explanation.

“We need to make a trip to the restricted armoury,” Nightbeat said. “Then, we’re going underground… way, _way_ underground. We’ve got a date with a forge.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Heh heh. Heh heh heh. Heh.”

Grimlock was well pleased with himself.

Cybertron’s terrestrial governor strode through the corridors of the Decagon, rubbing his hands with glee. Sparks flew from the gunmetal extremities as they ground over one another. The Dinobot scarcely cared. He’d solved his problem _and_ had some insidious fun in the process.

“Dirtwad Magnus no be able to complain now,” he rumbled happily. “Oh, he _want_ to complain, me bet, but he no be able to. No sir. Me done just as Prime asked, followed high-and-mighty leader’s instructions to letter. Heh heh heh.”

Now that the whims of the absent Optimus Prime had been satisfied, Grimlock could get back to the real business at hand. He was quite looking forward to the opening of the new mass transit system, and to cutting the ribbon… with his axe. After that, he might head to the barracks and give the troops a pep talk… by taking them on, one after the other, in combat. A few brews with Swoop at Macaddam’s and his day would be complete.

“Grimlock!”

His shoulders tensed. His neck bunched. His hands formed into claws. He growled.

“Grimlock, I must speak with you urgently.”

If there was one mech the Dinobot _didn’t_ want to see right now, it was Vector Prime. The ancient Transformer was one of the original 13 robots built by Primus, and had led the charge against Unicron back in the day. His help had been essential in closing a massive black hole, 10 years earlier, and saving all of existence. None of which made the clockwork mech particularly trustworthy, or reliable… or any less irritating.

“What you want, old timer? Monster crawl out of primeval sink on curve of space-time? Image of Unicron appear in morning bowl of Energon?”

“Your sense of humour escapes me,” Vector Prime said stiffly. “Should either of those events have occurred, they would be far from laughing matters.”

Grimlock imagined himself turning around, pulling the other mech’s head from his body and punting it down the hallway. He imagined the party the other Autobots would throw for him, complete with a cadre of dancing fembots. Suitably calmed, he turned to speak to his self-styled advisor.

“What. You. Want?”

Vector Prime didn’t blinked. “I caught sight of a message for you, in the communications room. I felt it warranted urgent attention.”

“Have power over time and space, and doing Blur’s old job,” Grimlock sighed. “Go find alternate reality to go save, huh? Place where Unicron trapped under surface of planet in gas form, or really silly thing like that.”

“It warranted _my_ urgent attention,” Vector Prime said coolly. “I am merely informing you as a courtesy, given your rank.”

Grimlock drew himself up to his full height and locked optics with the older mech. Vector Prime was only slightly shorter than the Dinobot, and certainly not about to back down. They stood there for a long moment, servo motors whining with mutual distaste, until the governor finally spoke.

“What message?” he asked darkly.

“Swoop has sent word from the Mini-con moon,” Vector Prime hissed, his teeth clenched. “He requires your presence immediately. It seems there are several things he wishes you to see for yourself.”

“What things?” Grimlock asked, his optics flashing murderously.

Vector Prime's face plate was grim. “New Mini-cons,” he said. “It appears our former partners have discovered the ability to _create new life_. At the same time, they may have given the ultimate evil passage back into this universe.”

\-----

“Beachcomber really didn’t want to give you that, huh?” Thundercracker grinned.

“Ah, never mind him,” Nightbeat said, waving his hand. “He’s just ticked he didn’t get selected for the RIDs, and has to keep those super-eyeballs of his trained on the restricted armoury instead. It’s made him a real sour puss.”

“That’s not very _groovy_ ,” the ex-Decepticon laughed nastily.

They walked on in silence. Up ahead, the others were waiting. Checkpoint had agreed to leave the confines of the prison for a few hours and join in the hunt, which made Nightbeat happy. The band was back together again.

Arcee was lounging on the edge of the Energon Pools when they arrived. Zapmaster was lying on his back, staring up at the top of the Tower of Pion. Checkpoint was fussing, as usual… moving around constantly, checking out every odd noise and unusual scent detected by his powerful sensor array.

“Did you get it?” the femme asked.

Nightbeat reached into his sub-space fold and pulled out a flat, green disc. It was trimmed with gold, with a rune on its centre that could be either the claw of an animal or an anvil spewing geysers of heat. “Yup. The alleged Green Planet Key of Animatros.”

Checkpoint’s head snapped up. “Alleged?”

“That’s what I said,” the detective nodded. He stepped over the edge of the Energon Pools and waded toward the centre. “Are you coming?” he asked over his shoulder.

The others climbed in; the smaller mech Powerlinking to Thundercracker for protection. The group gathered in the middle of the power-rich liquid and ducked under, swimming down into the bowels of Cybertron.

Not for the first time, Nightbeat was glad Checkpoint had insisted on taking precautions. Although Energon was the life blood of the Transformer race, too much of it wreaked havoc on one’s internal systems. The security expert had co-opted some Harmonic Modulation Buffers for the trip. The third-generation devices, when clamped to a mech’s chassis, generated a constantly-shifting frequency field and warded off all manner of radiation.

Arcee signalled to the others – she’d found the air lock that led to the sub-levels of the planet. The group made their way out of the neon pink “waters” and into the cool, dry tunnel as quickly as they could. A device within the air lock sponged the excess Energon from their forms and, once clean, they stepped into the ancient catacombs of their world.

“Dark, oppressive, angles of sharp, jagged metal,” Thundercracker nodded approvingly. “When can I move in?”

“In your next lifetime,” Arcee said, elbowing him in the mid-section. “Someone remind me never to let this big lug decorate our quarters.”

“I’ll remind you,” Zapmaster cackled, “the first time you actually let me inside.”

“Wipe your feet and I might,” Arcee beamed, the portrait of innocence.

“ _If_ you’re finished,” Nightbeat coughed, “we can get on our way.”

They transformed. Thundercracker soared above them, revelling in the great height of the caverns. Zapmaster rode shotgun on the dark warrior. Nightbeat shifted into a formula one-style police car; Checkpoint into an armoured siege truck. Arcee was the last to change shape, slipping comfortably into the form of a black and white motorcycle. The land-based mechs activated their headlights, and they were off.

\-----

“You ask Slag, they’re a pretty ugly bunch of little weirdos.”

“No one asked Slag.”

“No need to come down on Slag, boss-mech. Slag was just saying, is all.”

“No one _asked_ Slag.”

“Yeah but, if you had, Slag would have told you that Slag thinks they’re a pretty ugly…”

“ _No one asked Slag! Now shut mouth!_ ”

The smaller, red-and-white mech shuffled off, sulking. Grimlock ran his hands over his face and shook his head clear.

“Swoop,” he growled, calling his friend over. “Message say there several things you want me to see. Not realise that when you say ‘things’, you mean ‘things’.”

Grimlock, Swoop, Vector Prime and Slag had been met by a very satisfied group of Mini-cons. Each and every one of their face plates was plastered with the dumb smile of fulfilment, as if they’d done something really special. And they might just have – according to Vector Prime, they might just have unleashed a new evil upon the universe.

“When I mentioned ‘ultimate evil’,” Vector Prime added, joining the huddle, “I may have been overstating the potential problem.”

Between the Autobots and the Mini-cons were six robots of a… decidedly different nature. One was red, white and yellow, with a large crest running back from the top of its head. Next to it stood a wide, angular, tan-coloured mech; its taller comrade was bottle green with what looked like jaw halves for hands.

The other three were even stranger. One was black with thick, spiked arms and lithe, muscular legs. Another looked like a brown, feathered letter “x” with legs. The final… being… had u-shaped legs, a tail sprouting from one shoulder and was covered in black and orange stripes. It looked at Grimlock and smiled – its mouth was all fangs.

“Art and craft project?” the Dinobot asked.

Despite his joke, the situation was no laughing matter. The Mini-cons had created sentient, mechanical life _without_ the Creation Matrix. They’d broken taboos not only religious, but political – there was a freeze on Transformer creation until the Autobots were certain Energon supplies would hold up. As governor, it fell to Grimlock to decide the fate of any new life forms.

Sparkplug, leader of the Mini-con colony, coughed politely. “These, Grimlock, are the first among our race able to say they’re _not_ products of the Chaos Bringer,” he announced proudly. “As you know, the Mini-cons were created by Unicron in much the same way the Transformers were birthed from Primus. We don’t have Sparks, but are instead living repositories of chaotic energy. It’s what allowed us to work as weapons and power-boosters for all of you, during the war.”

“We’ve been experimenting with that energy,” Over-run, the aged seer, interrupted. “And we’ve discovered we can impart it to inanimate objects by Powerlinking with them, bestowing life in the process. Once we mastered the technique, we created bodies for six new Mini-cons and, well…” He gestured grandly. “Here they are.”

Vector Prime nodded thoughtfully. “They look rather… primitive.”

“Ugly bunch of little weirdos,” Slag called.

Swoop elbowed Grimlock. “And they have the most _interesting_ names,” he sneered. “That mob over there were going to be called the Dinobots, and the red one was going to be Swoop, until I… conducted some negotiations.” He flexed his powerful arms and grinned horribly; Sparkplug self-consciously rubbed the back of his head.

“Yes, well,” the little yellow mech muttered.

Dualor, the militant warrior, stepped forward. “In the order that they’re standing,” he boomed, “let me introduce: Skydive, Knockdown and Terrorsaur; the… umm… Hazardous Exploration Team. Next to them are: Carnivac, Catilla and Garboil; the Predator Attack Team.” He turned to face the new creations and barked: “Mini-cons… transform!”

At his command, the six changed shape. Skydive became a pterodactyl, Knockdown a triceratops, and Terrorsaur a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Carnivac’s alternate form was a wolf, Catilla’s a tiger, and Garboil’s an eagle with a huge wingspan. The bestial Mini-cons howled, roared and squawked as they assumed their new modes.

“Vector Prime’s right – they’re a little primitive, both in design and in… er… speech,” Sparkplug said, choosing his words carefully. “But they represent a beginning – a new start for our race. From here, we have plans for vehicle-based Mini-cons. Construction teams to help build our new world, aerial mechs to defend it, even race cars to courier information across the globe. The possibilities are endless.”

Grimlock bent down and looked into Terrorsaur’s optics. The dinosaur looked back dimly; it did not move when the Dinobot waved his hand in front of its face. “Little bit bad taste, Sparkplug,” he grunted. “Not know about news from Earth, me sure, but technorganics out this season. Predacon stirring up trouble.”

Dualor shook his head. “They’re not technorganic,” he said gruffly. “Their hides are a simulation of organic flesh – the better to allow them to blend into hostile territory. We’re going to have to visit Earth and gather resources, eventually. Animals will garner less attention that a fleet of miniature cars and trucks.”

“Yeah, okay,” Swoop sighed, “but dinosaurs? C’mon. You know full well Prime _never_ let Big Grim and I outta the base, back on Earth, when we were hunting for you lot. Where’s the sense in making more thunder lizards?”

Over-run responded. “They’ll be staying here,” he said. “There are areas of Unicron’s… remains… that are too hostile for Mini-con frames. The levels of Energon and other forms of radiation are dangerously high. The Hazardous Exploration Team have super-strong superstructures, and their faux-organic hides will ward off the worst of the Energon burn.” He smiled again. “They’re our trail blazers.”

Sparkplug reached up and gripped Grimlock’s hand. “This is all about taking control of our world, and of our destinies,” he pleaded. “We want the Autobots to understand that, and not suspect us of doing something untoward.”

Grimlock prised his hand free of the surprisingly strong grip. “Right. Sure. You wait here – big mechs need to talk now.”

The Autobots walked a few hundred metres away and huddled up. “What everyone think?” Grimlock asked. Round-table discussion was not his forte but he’d learned that, in politics, it paid to listen to everyone’s opinion. That way, they couldn’t complain when you discarded every single piece of their dumb advice.

“Fire, and lots of it,” Slag sneered.

“That is your solution for everything,” Vector Prime sighed.

“Slag says they’ve gotta go. Illegitimate children of the Chaos Bringer… Unicron’s bastards. Slag says that ain’t no good for anyone.”

“Talk about being harsh,” Swoop countered. “That’s like saying Grimlock should’ve gotten a court-martial the moment he joined the ‘bots, all because he’d been a ‘con before that.” He looked over his shoulder, then back at the group. “They’re only little – we can wipe ‘em out in five seconds, if need be. Why not let ‘em go, keep an optic out?”

“I concur,” Vector Prime said. “It would be simplistic to think that chaos inevitably equals evil – even though that was my first reaction. Primus and Unicron were forces in balance, equal and opposing elements of the universe.” He made a steeple of his fingers. “Now that Unicron is gone, perhaps the Mini-con race must thrive, in order to re-establish the balance between the children of light and darkness. We should watch, carefully, and no more.”

Swoop looked at Grimlock. “Deciding vote’s yours, boss,” he quipped. “Then again, when you think about it, it always is.”

Grimlock scanned the faces of his mechs; then looked, once again, at the new Mini-cons. Terrorsaur was in the same position, dumb and mute. Catilla hadn’t stopped grinning. The others were pawing at the ground or butting heads. Carnivac, the black wolf, was a little different. He’d focused his red, lupine eyes right on Grimlock and arched his back, growling. Like he knew what was being discussed.

“Yeah,” Grimlock agreed. “It always is.”

His fingers twitched on the handle of his Energon axe.

\-----

Nightbeat had never been so far below the surface before. He took the turns he’d memorised from Grimlock’s report, filed in the aftermath of the Battle of Iacon.

Hours of travel passed.

“Have we missed it?” Thundercracker called.

“If you’ve found and ignored a big kiln-looking thing in the middle of a polished stainless steel room, then yeah,” Nightbeat deadpanned. “We’ve missed it.”

The ex-Decepticon made a disgusted noise in the back of his synthesiser and kept flying.

“Exactly what do you think we’re going to find?” Arcee asked.

“Answers,” was Nightbeat’s sole reply.

Grimlock and Snarl had confronted Predacon, leader of the Terrorcons, in one of the most ancient sectors beneath the surface, and come away with the Green Planet Key. Nightbeat was certain the key to his latest mystery – the Terrorcons’ sensor invisiblity to the naked optic – was somewhere in the Plasma Energy Chamber. But the others didn’t need to know that until they arrived at their destination.

“Fall back!” Checkpoint shouted.

No one argued. You didn’t question Checkpoint’s paranoia – not if you wanted to live, anyway. Thundercracker executed a hair-pin turn and headed back the way they’d come; the three Autobots pulled hand-brake turns and made all speed away.

A moment later, the downward passage erupted in a plume of fire.

Thundercracker transformed. He and Zapmaster dropped to the ground, their weapons already drawn and activated. Nightbeat and the others followed suit, aiming a selection of munitions, missiles and laser ordnance at the wall of flame. They waited, but only briefly.

Four shadows appeared in the centre of the blaze. One was hulking and angular, with two long tubes mounted on its shoulders. The second was smaller, but somehow seemed more dangerous. Two long, thin weapons extended from its hands.

“No prizes for guessing who two of our playmates are,” Nightbeat murmured.

Crumplezone lumbered into the open and stopped, resting on his knuckles. His thick green jaw worked wordlessly, and he regarded the Autobots with a blank stare. Wheeljack followed, his presence announced by his characteristic, mocking laughter. “So nice to see you all again,” he crowed.

“Who’re your friends?” Thundercracker quipped, pointing his wing sword at the flames.

The third shadow was almost as wide as the first, but there was something odd about it. The shape didn’t seem to move, as if it were inert armour rather than a living metal being. It moved closer, revealing its true nature… a lithe, cruel-looking femme, decorated in purple and gold, with mighty wings stretching across her back. She was leering, but only for a moment – only until she laid optics on the group of mechs opposing her.

“Thundercracker?” she asked, the shock on her face plate evident.

“Thunderblast?” he replied, equally stunned.

Arcee glared. “That’s _her_?” she hissed.

“More incoming,” Checkpoint interrupted, pointing toward the flames.

As the fourth shadow emerged from the inferno, Nightbeat recoiled in horror. The others – even Thundercracker – did the same. In all his years, the detective had never seen anything as _hideous_ as the creature now before him. For some bizarre reason, this Transformer had grafted bone to its bodywork. The ivory, calcified substance was everywhere… across its body and weapons and, most nauseatingly, its face. A hideous, grinning skull lurked beneath the robot’s horned helm, the flames around it turning it into the most impure visage of hell.

“Bludgeon’s had something of an upgrade,” Wheeljack said in a haunting voice. “It’s not to everyone’s taste, but… well, let’s be honest. You’ll all be dead in a moment, anyway, so your opinions scarcely matter.”

The newly-minted Terrorcons leaped at their foes, howling war cries. Nightbeat and his friends recovered their wits, and met them half-way.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’ve _got_ to stop hanging out with you Autobot losers. Mechs keep trying to kill me, and it’s starting to really torque me off!”

Nightbeat winced as another missile streaked past, far too close. Trying to ignore Thundercracker’s grousing, he snapped off a volley of shots from his long-barrelled rifle. The red lasers drove their attacker, Chromia, back behind cover.

“And here was I thinking you liked this kind of stuff,” the detective snapped as he rammed a new ammunition cartridge home.

“Most of the time, I do,” Thundercracker snarled back, dropping his shoulder-mounted cannons into place. “Trouble is, these days I’m expected to play by your weakling rules!”

The towering warrior rose to his feet and fired two continuous streams of vivid purple energy at the attacking Terrorcons. The beams, enhanced by the power of Zapmaster, sliced through the steel and chrome of the Cybertronian catacombs. Bludgeon, Wheeljack and the others scattered in all directions, running too fast to fire their weapons in reply.

Thundercracker ducked low and joined the others. “If these idiots are sensor-invisible,” he rasped, “how did bloodhound over there know they were coming?”

“I didn’t,” Checkpoint answered stiffly, his pride hurt. “Not even my sensors can pick up the Terrorcons. However, that little trap they saw fit to set… the tunnel inferno… triggered everything from the olfactory to the thermal. _That’s_ why I pulled up.”

“Good thing you did,” Arcee mumbled. The valkyrie held an arrow in her mouth, distorting her speech, as she notched another in her Energon bow.

“Here’s a question for you,” Nightbeat said, turning to Thundercracker. “I count four baddies out there, including a femme called Chromia. Yet you called her ‘Thunderblast’.”

“So?”

A clamour of detonations ended the conversation. Looking up, Nightbeat saw a yellow hover-tank advancing toward them. Bludgeon, apparently, had given up on martial arts and fallen back on firepower. His turret spewed death at them; it was quickly accompanied by Crumplezone’s massive turbine blasters.

Checkpoint transformed and accelerated into the fray. He dodged Bludgeon’s firepower and rammed the tank, bumper-to-bumper, knocking it off course. Arcee, in robot mode, stepped into the gap and loosed a volley of arrows. Crumplezone, undeterred, kept on coming – Arcee transformed to vehicle mode and took off, leading him away.

“So why did you call her ‘Thunderblast’?” Nightbeat asked again. He hadn’t become Cybertron’s greatest detective by being easily distracted from an investigation.

Thundercracker’s expression soured. “Does it matter?”

Nightbeat threw himself bodily into the ex-Decepticon. The missiles that had been bound for their heads impacted, instead, on the wall behind. “Considering she’s making a concerted effort to slag you first,” he yelled, “I’d say it does, yeah!”

The jet pushed him off, fired a burst at their enemies, and sighed loudly. “ _Fine_. Just so you know: humans didn’t invent the concept of mech/femme cohabitation, all right? And you Autobots didn’t discover it on Earth, either. Some of the more _enlightened_ members of our race have been doing it for deca-cycles.”

Nightbeat’s jaw went slack. “We’re being attacked by your ex-girlfriend?”

“That’s about the size of it, yeah.”

“Your ex- _frelling_ -girlfriend?”

“I knew her as Thunderblast… maybe she changed her name to match me or something,” the jet frowned. “Look, just because we Decepticons are enlightened enough to co-habit doesn’t mean we’re enlightened enough to pick the right femmes, all right?”

Nightbeat shrugged. “At least she’s got good aim.”

“You’re supposed to say she’s ‘got good taste’,” Thundercracker snapped.

“Autobots don’t lie,” the detective grinned.

Incoming salvos separated them; Nightbeat ran right and met up with Checkpoint. The security specialist had returned to robot mode and was using his truck afterburners as forearm-mounted flamethrowers. “If Rodimus could do it, so can I,” he offered.

“Whatever works,” Nightbeat agreed. “My advice is we focus our energies on Crumplezone and Wheeljack.”

Checkpoint shot him a withering look. “Nightbeat, you are a wonderful friend and I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” he said. “But there is no need for you to help me ‘face my fears’ or whatever it is you’re attempting. Gigalonia was a decade ago and I survived; I’ve had these rapscallions in my care that entire time. I feel no need to ‘avenge’ myself, or ‘balance the score’, or take a course of action apparently expected of those who’ve had near-death experiences.”

“Not my point,” Nightbeat said. He grabbed his friend’s head and forcibly turned it around. To their left, a pitched battle was going on. Thundercracker and Arcee were moving, with deadly speed, between Bludgeon and Chromia. The femmes would fight for a moment, hurling scathingly abusive torrents at one another, while the mechs crossed swords. A second later, Thundercracker would dive at his former love, hissing and snarling, to be met with equal hatred. Arcee and Bludgeon, meanwhile, would exchange kicks and punches so fast that the naked optic could not follow; two masters at work.

“Ah,” Checkpoint said lightly. “I understand. I’ll take Crumplezone, then.”

“Perfect,” Nightbeat growled. “Because I don’t have the same ‘live and let live’ policy as you. I’ve been waiting a good, long time to toast that traitorous psycho.”

\-----

Grimlock scanned the faces of his mechs; then looked, once again, at the new Mini-cons. Terrorsaur was in the same position, dumb and mute. Catilla hadn’t stopped grinning. The others were pawing at the ground or butting heads. Carnivac, the black wolf, was a little different. He’d focused his red, lupine eyes right on Grimlock and arched his back, growling. Like he knew what was being discussed. 

“Yeah,” Grimlock agreed. “It always is.” 

His fingers twitched on the handle of his Energon axe.

He turned… transformed to dinosaur mode… and _charged_ the Mini-cons.

“What are you doing?” Vector Prime cried.

“Boss?” Swoop asked.

“Wipe ‘em out, big mech!” Slag whooped.

Grimlock opened his serrated jaws wide and _roared,_ shaking the surface of the moon with his fury. The bestial sound echoed through the thin atmosphere and seemed to energise the miniature robots around him.

Light sparkled in Terrorsaur’s eyes; the smaller dinosaur opened its jaws and tried to match the roar. Garboil and Skydive took to the air, shrieking in defiance. Knockdown was quickly on the move, but his speed was put to shame by Carnivac and Catilla. The wolf and the tiger changed forms and streaked away from the pack, slamming into Grimlock with the force of small missiles.

The Dinobot laughed off their assault, swatting them away with his golden tail. Catilla sailed through the air and away; Carnivac loosed his claws and _hung on_. Grimlock yowled with surprise, feeling the tiny talons gouge into his tail, and tried to fling the wolf away.

He didn’t get time – Knockdown thundered into his left leg and took it out from under him. Grimlock toppled to one side, just in time for Terrorsaur to clamp down on his unguarded right arm. A hail of electrified feathers, courtesy of Garboil, blinded him.

The Mini-con pack suddenly broke free and scampered away; only for Divebomb to blanket Grimlock with sticky, super-heated napalm. It clung like glue and seeped into his joints, scalding everything in its path.

“Little scraplets,” Grimlock bellowed. He rose to his feet and shook the fiery goop from his form. But he’d been wrong – not all the Mini-cons had taken off. Carnivac had clung defiantly to his chassis, taking a burst of napalm for his troubles, and started _climbing up his spine_. Grimlock winced and yelped as the little claws sliced their way, higher and higher, out of reach of his damaged dinosaur arms.

“All right, I’ve had shot of this,” Swoop yelled from the sidelines.

“Too right,” Slag said, transforming and revving his engine. “Time to burn!”

“No,” Grimlock ordered. “Swoop and Slag stand down; that order! No go nowhere!”

The duo, loyal to a fault, froze in place. Slag returned to robot mode, his face plate etched with bewilderment. “What’s he on about, then?”

“Survival of the fittest,” Vector Prime nodded sagely. He tossed a salute at Grimlock.

The Dinobot turned his attention back to his diminutive foes. Vector Prime’s words had impressed him. Maybe he’d underestimated the smarts of the old stopwatch, after all. There hadn’t been a Prime built yet with whom Grimlock agreed… it’d be funny if the first to bear the name came closest to being tolerable.

\-----

Half of Nightbeat took careful note of Wheeljack’s position, ensuring he dodged his missile attacks. The other half eaves-dropped, as much as it could, on the other fight.

“Chromia? You never told me that,” Thundercracker shouted.

“You never asked,” Chromia sneered in reply. “And it doesn’t matter, anyway – we’re ancient history! Seeing you was a shock but I’m over it, now.”

“Looks like you’re over having any sense, too,” Thundercracker spat. “You’ve gone Terrorcon? Really? You’re lacking a little flesh there, femme… too scared to go gooey like your precious leader?”

Chromia’s grin was ugly. “You never did understand me,” she hissed. “It’s what made you such a perfect _patsy._ ”

A pink and black streak arced between them, crashing into Chromia with horrific impact. “That’s enough out of you, wrench,” Arcee fumed, slashing at her rival with two Energon daggers. “You didn’t have the strut to stand up to Megatron, so don’t even pretend you were courageous enough to play games with my mech!”

“Listen to little miss prissy-parts,” Chromia whooped, smacking Arcee across the face with the butt of her quad-launcher. “Thundercracker used to make sport out of scaring you on the battlefield, and you’re _defending_ him. Talk about delusional!”

Fascinated, but otherwise occupied, Nightbeat grudgingly turned his full attention to Wheeljack. It was a good decision – the former Autobot had drawn in close and was lashing out with his power batons. The lighting in the chamber was poor, and getting worse. The detective dodged as well as he could, but still took unseen, glancing blows to the face and midsection.

Wheeljack was drooling. “Ten long years, detective,” he rasped. “Killing those prison guards was sweet release, but pointless. I’ve waited a decade to sink my fingers into real, meaningful Autobot steel, and you’re first on the list.”

Nightbeat looked up… listened… and laughed.

“What’s so funny, dead mech?” the serial killer asked.

“You… dead mech,” Nightbeat quipped.

He darted to the left, transforming as he did. Even peeling rubber, he only _just_ managed to get out of Crumplezone’s way. The dull-witted Speedian caromed into Wheeljack. The crash echoed through the chamber, distracting Chromia from her argument. That was all the opening her enemies needed; a sweep of Thundercracker’s wing sword and an arrow from Arcee’s bow felled the femme.

Nightbeat skidded to a halt next to Checkpoint. The warden was in truck mode, his engine idling gently. “I remembered Crumplezone wasn’t the brightest of mechs,” he said happily. “So I had him to chase me, then turned off all my running lights. He kept going in a straight line, into the dark, after I’d zigged out of the way.”

Inwardly, Nightbeat shook his head. “Of all the dumb moves.”

“Ten years is ample time to learn someone’s weaknesses.”

Thundercracker and Arcee ran up alongside. “When it get so dark in here? The ex-Decepticon asked.

“Forget that,” Arcee admonished. “I can’t find Bludgeon. Where’d he go?”

Concern flooded Nightbeat’s processor. As one, he and Checkpoint transformed, then shifted modes again – combining into their super-strong Powerlinked mode. Given access to all his friend’s hyper-senses, as well as his weapons, Nightbeat scanned the oppressive darkness for any trace of the _metallikato_ master.

He found his quarry – but too late. Bludgeon, his skeletal face beaming with success, had managed to loop his fallen comrades in a large electro-net. He ran, dragging his unconscious allies along behind… and trailing thick, black smoke from a series of vents in his legs. A second later, all four Terrorcons vanished from Nightbeat’s sensors, making good use of their invisibility.

“Dammit,” the detective spat. “I forgot he could do the fog thing.”

“You and me both,” Arcee muttered. “I should have remembered. Sorry, guys.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Thundercracker said. “Whatever they were trying to stop us from doing, they’ve fracked it up good and proper.”

Nightbeat and Checkpoint separated; the security expert sniffed at the oily smog pervading the chamber. “If they were trying to stop us,” he said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “I believe we stumbled on the remainder of their escape attempt, not an ambush or trap of any particular design. A spontaneous assault.”

“Makes sense,” Thundercracker nodded. “Cruel Lock and Sharkticon are probably on a ship somewhere waiting, safely undetectable.”

Nightbeat thought about the Green Planet Key he carried. “Making it all the more imperative,” he said grimly, “that we solve this little mystery right now.”

\-----

Carnivac was still on Grimlock’s back and travelling higher, making for his skull. The others had regrouped and renewed their attack; Skydive was leading the charge. There were no prizes, then, for guessing who were the more intelligent members of this pack.

Catilla, then, surprised him – the grinning idiot wasn’t so stupid after all. Grimlock almost missed his stealthy approach and, when he noticed the stripey furball, it was too late. The tiger slashed at delicate ankle servos, restricting the Dinobot’s manoeuvrability.

Or at least he _would_ have, had Grimlock been a normal Transformer. Still, he was very impressed. The Cheshire grin was for show, a feint for the gullible prey… there was nothing paper about the Mini-con tiger. He was as feral as the cycle was long.

“Time this end,” Grimlock said aloud.

He transformed. As his dinosaur legs became robot arms, he snatched Catilla by the scruff of the neck. Carnivac was pinned, part-crushed, as Grimlock’s rex-head flipped back. A swipe of his Energon axe clipped the wings of Skydive and Garboil; one swift kick silenced Knockdown and Terrorsaur. They fell in a heap, the birds clanging down atop them.

Grimlock hurled the wolf and the tiger into the pile and retook his beast form. Unbowed, barely damaged, his pumps and processor singing with the beauty of animalistic violence, the Dinobot opened his jaws and _roared_ once again.

As one, the Mini-cons picked themselves up from their defeat and roared, squawked and howled in reply. Carnivac padded out in front of the pack and rolled onto his back, exposing his delicate underbelly to Grimlock. The Dinobot sneered and snapped; the wolf withdrew reverently.

“Mini-cons, transform – _now!_ ”

They moved on Grimlock’s command, standing to attention. Each tried to ignore his wounds and focused on presenting the best profile he could. Grimlock, once again in robot mode, walked down the parade ground line they’d formed, inspecting them one by one. Satisfied, he nodded and rumbled, low and long. The Mini-cons fell out, limping and shuffling back toward an apoplectic Dualor.

“What the frell do you think you’re doing?” the tank demanded. “And what was that blasted noise all about?”

“Huh,” Grimlock sniffed, unimpressed. “Call of primitives, all right? Expect bullet-head like you not understand. Not matter anyway – new Mini-cons okay. Can keep pets.”

With a dismissive wave, he turned and walked toward his mechs. The bestial robots all dropped to one knee and bowed their heads as he passed. Swoop and Slag, still astonished, ran to catch up. Grimlock pretended not to head Vector Prime’s satisfied little chuckle until they were safely inside their craft… then he, too, started to laugh.

Their mutual volume intensified, their good humour feeding one another. Soon, both were laughing so hard that lubricant leaked from their optic sensors.

“Someone tell Slag what’s going on,” the red car demanded. “Right now!”

“Yeah, an explanation wouldn’t go astray,” Swoop said quietly.

It took a few more minutes for silence. Vector Prime looked earnestly at Grimlock. “You listened to me,” he said, quietly. “In the Decagon, more than 10 years ago. Though you dismissed my words as myth, you listened.”

Grimlock nodded. “Lot happened after that,” he said. “Myth looked different after. More real, maybe. Chance of it having ring of truth. Entropy, chaos, stuff inside Sparks… thought me use it.”

Vector Prime turned to Swoop and Slag. “Within the Spark of all Transformers lies both creation and entropy – elements of Primus and Unicron,” he explained. “Some of our race tend more one way than the other and some… well, some straddle the balance. By attacking the new Mini-cons as he did… pitting his personal chaos against theirs… Grimlock could to determine if they truly were the seeds of Unicron.”

“Fought to disable, not kill,” Grimlock said. “Little beasts want to take me down, down out. Slash servos, tear at spine, go for eyes and arms. Not target pumps or processor; no try to cut Spark out with claws.” He smiled. “Fight hard, fight well, but fight like Autobots… not Decepticons or Chaos Bringers.”

Swoop nodded, understanding at last. “It was a test,” he said. “If they’d tried to slag you…”

“Hey!” Slag cried.

“… you’d have squished them permanently. You gave them a… a primitive ethics test.”

Grimlock was still smiling. “Politics been good for me, Swoop,” he said. “Better to win mechs over than boss them around. Better still if you win mechs over by kicking skid-plates into next week.”

\-----

The Plasma Energy Chamber was a spacious, circular room made of highly polished stainless steel. The forge that birthed the early Transformer race sat in the centre of the far wall. It was a dome, its smooth façade broken only by a control panel on its front. By concentrating and cross-referencing with the files he’d read, Nightbeat could almost _see_ Flame Convoy hammering away on rows of metal bodies, building warriors to serve Primus in the endless war against Unicron.

There was a strange sense of purity about the place. Cold, clinical purity.

“We were just robots,” Thundercracker said distastefully. “Tools, weapons to be thrown at an even bigger robot.” He spat a wad of mech-fluid onto the pristine floor. “You Autobots like to turn it into ‘fate of the universe’ and gods and monsters, but it’s simpler than that. Just Primus playing with toy soldiers, trying to take down his enemy before he fell himself. Our lives, our culture… accidental by-products.”

“Ever the optimist,” Checkpoint said, his tone withering.

“Gent bent, alarm-boy.”

“Pipe down,” Nightbeat admonished. He walked over to the kiln, cradling the Planet Key in his ebony arms. Arcee was right by his side, looking tense.

“Problem?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “You’ve never been real clear on this part of your plan. You said something about the ‘alleged Planet Key’… you think we’ve had a copy, all this time?”

Nightbeat winked at her. “One way to find out,” he said.

He slipped the Key into its lock and the spherical room filled with a green light… the glow seemed to rocket back down the tunnel and out to the world above. Dials, switches and screens on the console flared to life, and a disc drive slid open.

“You’re not, are you?” Arcee asked, her volume rising. Thundercracker and Checkpoint clustered around, their faces dark with panic. “You read the report – the energies unleashed by this thing _kill_ Transformers! Don’t…”

Gripping the Key firmly in his right hand, Nightbeat twisted it. The lock moved to the left with a long, sickening click, and…nothing happened.

Checkpoint was almost frozen; only his optics moved. Arcee let out a tense breath. Thundercracker tried to hide the fact he’d shielded his face with his hands. Nightbeat nodded, satisfied.

“In a moment of altruism rarely seen in the Decepticon ranks,” he began, “Predacon spared the lives of all those within the chamber and abandoned his plans to build an army of Terrorcon drones. Noble in defeat, he handed the Green Planet Key of Animatros to Grimlock – the mech who’d won the day – and left Cybertron, never to return.

“Never to return… and be detected, that is. First chance he got, he came back and switched the real, uber-powerful Planet Key for… whatever this fake’s made of.”

He took the false Key from the lock and threw it to the ground.

“The energies of this forge altered Predacon on a molecular level,” he continued. “It changed the cells inside his organic components. Let’s face it, this whole structure is designed to animate steel with life. Imagine the effect of that power on something already living. Well, really, you can’t. But my _hypothesis_ is it rendered Predacon invisible to all technological eyes.”

Nightbeat waited for applause… for dawning lights of understanding… for any kind of reaction. His friends stared expectantly, waiting for the rest. He sighed.

“Downshift’s analysed a captured Terrorcon,” he said. “According to our mad scientist, flesh had been grafted to Divebomb’s chassis in a ‘haphazard’ way, with little rhyme or reason. And I’m sure it looked that way, without this new piece of evidence. I’ll bet each and every one of you a Macaddam’s round that at least _some_ of the flesh… or bone… on each Terrorcon is cloned from Predacon himself. And I’ll bet you another round those Terrorcons who won’t go soggy… Chromia and our old playmates… carry a little keepsake on their persons at all times. Skin that _radiates_ sensor invisibility. Flesh suits that blind Transformer eyes. That’s how they got onto Cybertron, into the prison… likely into the Global Space Bridge on Earth, too. It’s _written_ into their very DNA!”

Finally, he got a reaction. “Frelling hack,” Thundercracker breathed.

“To say the least.”

“Well, now we know,” Arcee said. “And I’m not finishing that cliché.”

“It’s annoying but appropriate,” Nightbeat nodded. “Downshift and the RIDs figured out how to bring the Terrorcons down. Given this information, Red Alert will be able to whip up something to detect them. And, armed with both…”

Thundercracker beamed a hunter’s smile. “We can bring them down.”

The atmosphere between the four of them was electric. Anticipation, running through their neural pathways, was better than any other feeling. A new adventure called.

“It _has_ been a while since we saw Earth,” Nightbeat said.


End file.
